


Let Me

by twowritehands



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:03:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twowritehands/pseuds/twowritehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus' leg never fully recovers, and he finds himself in more pain and more dependent on Esca's help as time goes on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: first ever canon era fic; I tried not to embarrass myself too much

For years, while they farmed in their quiet hills and Marcus’ body stayed firm and vigorous, his leg only ached on harsh winter nights, or in the humid stillness before the heaviest of rainfalls. There would only be a twinge if he stepped wrong, a brief reminder of how the gods stripped away one life and gave him the chance to make a new one, a better one. A life with Esca.

Season followed season, and Marcus started to believe there was nothing about a harsh winter which he and Esca had not already survived when there came the occasional hitch in his step, or, while standing, he would have to suddenly grab the wall, the table, the horse, whatever was nearest, to stay upright.

If Esca was near to witness these stumbles, he never made mention of it. But Marcus could always feel Esca’s unwavering gaze, could sense the tension in his lover as he worried for him, yet Esca held his tongue. For that Marcus was grateful, not wanting sympathies, only his leg dependable once more, to be a whole man of strength and dignity for Esca.

Esca, who deserved so much more than Rome ever allowed him to have.

These dark moods were always broken up by a hand on his face, Esca’s, warm and dry and calloused, silently asking him to lift his gaze from the ground to look up into eyes of shining grey-blue and soft devotion.

|||

Esca’s heart skipped every time Marcus stumbled. His first thought was always to rush to his Roman’s side and take half the big man’s weight across his shoulders. But Marcus’ pride would never allow that—not yet, while they were still young, not while all it took was a moment of stretching before he was right back to work as if it’d never happened.

The way Marcus grimaced, his lips spreading tightly as he kneaded his thigh for a moment, kept Esca from even commenting that Marcus should rest it, go inside and let him finish the planting alone; he knew it would be futile to argue with the big stubborn fool.  

After any such stumble, Marcus’ brow would sit in bitterness until Esca pressed his palm to the side of Marcus’ big face and slipped the pad of his thumb under one of those caterpillar-green eyes.

The way Marcus’ expression shed years whenever he leaned into Esca’s touch never failed to reaffirm Esca’s life, why the gods had spared him during the slaughter of his people. It is as if, before delivering him safely into the servitude of this Roman who was so unlike the rest, the gods had tattooed a command into Esca’s spirit, _always be there for him, this man we made for you_.

And by the time Esca saw flecks of grey when he combed back the hair at Marcus’ temples, Marcus’ leg was so stiff in the morning after any strain from sex the night before that Esca would have to massage it well before Marcus could even get out of bed.

Eventually, Esca made sure to never be taken from behind unless Marcus would be standing on both feet for the duration.

|||

“No,” Marcus tried to insist, those first few incidents when he tried to sit up for the piss pot in the middle of the night and cried out, whole leg set to spasms. Esca would drag his bleary eyes open and leave the warmth of his covers on his side of the bed to massage away the tightness and the pain. “No, Esca, I can see to it myself. Sleep, I did not mean to wake you—“

“Let me,” Esca said, firm but soft and it did not matter how often Marcus tried to remind him that, as a freeman, he did not have to do everything for him anymore, he did not have to take care of him. Esca only scoffed and gave him a look, undecipherable but so very _Esca,_ and went back to his work on the muscle.

Marcus noticed when Esca started subtly guiding him into fucking only in certain ways, no longer asking anything of him in those positions which made his leg pain him so badly he could scarcely enjoy his release; and, truthfully, Marcus was torn between gratitude and horror. Relieved to be spared the pain, but sickened that it should be needed in the first place.

What kind of man could call himself a man when he could only fuck someone while lying flat on his back? True, Esca was a breathtaking sight above him, pounding down on him, strong shoulders straining as he gripped the furs by Marcus’ head, jaw set tight, brows flattened in focus as sweat beaded across his cheeks and nose. But Esca deserved more than that—so much more than Marcus could give anymore.

|||

One year, on a trip into Calleva to buy and sell horses, Esca was enjoying himself. He loved their farm, but a part of him loved streets of people, vendors at the market, pretty young women batting their eyes and grinning at him. He loved Marcus, and would never dream of betraying his trust, but the son of Cunoval would always stand taller knowing he was wanted by women half his age.

He and Marcus were leading some horses down the street when the Roman gave a lurch forward and down he went—a sprawling heap, an undignified shout of pain and alarm while his horse reared in surprise, whinnying loudly—and _splat_.

Onlookers laughed when Marcus landed in the mud and the manure.

Esca hurried to help him, pulled him up and fit himself under Marcus’ heavy arm. It was common by then that when this happened Marcus would have to leave the fields early, lean on Esca the whole way into the house, and Esca had long taken to giving him a massage at night as well as the morning.

Marcus’ face was burning red, eyes down, fists in tight knots even when the passersby had moved on, the humor they found in a man’s fall short lived, but not short enough for Marcus’ liking. His tunic was spattered and wet, reeking. They were near the bathhouses and Esca ordered the boy they’d hired to help them this year to mind the horses.

“Come on, Marcus, the heat of the water will do you good.”

Marcus did not say a word, fists still tight, jaw set between his every grimace of pain, eyes downcast. Esca felt him relax when they discovered they would be alone in the bath house. Esca made quick work of their clothes, discarding the ruined tunic—they had money to buy another.

There was a moment of scramble when they nearly lost their footing while climbing in and Marcus’ shout of pain echoed distortedly through the close confines of the stone chamber. Once seated in the hot water, Esca set right to massaging the muscle. Marcus rinsed his face and Esca did not look at him, knowing he would prefer no audience after the laughter of a whole street.

But Marcus was too quiet—not even groans of pleasure or pain—and when Esca chanced to glance at him, he lost his breath.

Marcus’s jaw was clenched, lips mashed together and water slipping from his eyes. In fifteen years Esca had never seen Marcus cry. He went straight into action.

|||

Marcus hadn’t cried—with the exception of bitter tears in private after his discharge—since he was a boy. The heat of the bath water seeped in and cut the pain in half and Esca’s expert hands were quickly dealing with the rest, but he was not crying in pain. He cried from injustice. Why did _his_ body have to be so weak and growing weaker? He did not think himself to be so a bad person. Did he not deserve to stand tall like his peers?

His eyes stung, hot and blurry, and he loathed that he should lose his control now, and cursed the gods for taking from him even what pride there could be in simply walking down the street. 

But when Esca noticed, it only made everything so much worse and Marcus considered sinking beneath the water’s surface. But before he could, Esca was swiftly moving, turning him through the water to sit along the bench, leaning back low between Esca’s legs.

All four of his lover’s appendages wrapped around him and sweet lips puckered again and again to where his neck met his shoulder. Esca never said a word, just held on, little caresses of his fingers as he kissed and breathed—shhh—against his skin.

“I am already a useless old man,” Marcus said glumly into the silence when he was back in control.

“We’ve a few years yet before we see sixty,” Esca said, lovingly carding his fingers through Marcus’ already solid white head of hair. “That is not so old as others.”

“Men not far from seventy can walk without falling down as I have done.”

“And not a one of them has a wit of honor for all their years,” Esca’s voice was low, spoken against that spot on his neck, “Silk-assed politicians know nothing of the sacrifice of a warrior, the bravery and the strength that it takes to stand up again and again after every crippling blow.”

They fell silent, Marcus comforted by Esca’s words. He gripped Esca’s knees on either side of him, giving them a loving squeeze. There was so much he wanted to say— _thank you;_ or _you are a good man, Esca;_ or _you are the best man I’ve known;_ or _you are my dearest friend._

And then there were the other things, the things he longed to say each night when Esca curled against him, dropping kisses across his chest until he found sleep or release— _I send thanks to the gods every day for their grace in allowing you to stay at my side_ , _because such loyalty and kindness and intelligence are rarely found in one place, let alone in someone as beautiful as you_.

But mostly what he longed to say—to shout before all of Rome—was how he loved Esca so much sometimes that he could not discern if he was dying or more alive than ever.

All at once it did not matter if he was crippled, because the very idea that he could have lost Esca behind the wall, or any moment since their return and his freedom, or, worse of all, could have never even met him in the first place, made Marcus acutely aware that he already had more than he deserved.

Perhaps a painful, useless leg was the way the god’s chose to balance the scales. The idea made him smile. For the first time in his life, Marcus _smiled_ at the idea of his mangled thigh.

A wry grin and a soft laugh was pressed to his neck and the hand resting over Marcus’ heart trailed low down his stomach, sinking beneath the water with a purpose.

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: go ahead and hate on the fade to black there if you want, but we’ve all read hand jobs in the baths before, right? I felt like the focus of this thing was elsewhere.


End file.
